


one more game, please

by powercrow



Series: (attempted) endeavors in kink [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Kissing, Nerd! Maria, Pining, Punk! Natasha, Secret Agent Women, Unresolved Romantic Tension, feelings are hard, somewhat canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22331734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powercrow/pseuds/powercrow
Summary: Maria and Natasha are undercover. So are their feelings.
Relationships: Maria Hill/Natasha Romanov
Series: (attempted) endeavors in kink [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607479
Comments: 10
Kudos: 104
Collections: MCU Kink Bingo Round 4





	one more game, please

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline = could be anywhere from Iron Man to pre-Winter Soldier. 
> 
> I'm grateful to the Lifeboat folks for opening my heart to Maria/Nat <3!!
> 
> Written for the [MCU Kink Bingo Round 4](https://mcukinkbingo.tumblr.com/), fills O-2: Characters are a Nerd and a Punk.

Maria shivers and pushes at the decrepit wooden door, eager to get inside and out of the cold. It resists her, and she pushes harder, only to recoil when the door fights back, embedding a splinter into her finger. She glares at the door. It’s a sad specimen, covered in peeling stickers and bedraggled flyers. The health department inspection report is nearly covered by an advertisement for an upcoming show, the Vultures of Deception. The grade is hidden, but the frowning face next to a depressed looking vulture on a drum set is seems descriptive enough. 

Maria sucks the splinter out of her finger, spits it out, and kicks the door. It flies open, slamming into the wall. Tattered papers gently drift to the floor, and as she stomps in, she’s treated to a scowl from the woman behind the espresso bar. 

“Take it easy, we only got the one door!” Maria resists the urge to roll her eyes. That door would probably survive the apocalypse. She gathers up the discarded flyers, because she’s undercover as a software engineer, not an asshole. Sticking them back on the door _is_ beyond her though, and instead she files them in the garbage on her way to join the line weaving towards the back of the coffee bar. 

It’s too warm, in stark contrast to the frigid air outside, and Maria plucks at the collar of her shirt and starts wrestling out of her jacket. Despite her discomfort now, she knows she’ll be grateful for her layers later. Her day is spent at a desk directly under an air vent, an air vent that seems particularly determined to dump chilled air on her all day. 

It’s fair: she herself spends all day meticulously implanting coding errors - nothing too obvious, but taken together it has the potential to really fucking inconvenience Hammer Industries once Shield gives the signal, sets her loose. So, in that sense, it seems right that the very building retaliate against her in the most passive aggressive way possible. 

The line moves and she moves, shuffling forward and trying to balance her messenger bag covered in assorted pins against her. 

She’d gone a little overboard with the bag (and her desk) - everything at Shield is sleek, nondescript, minimally branded. It’s fine, it’s exactly what Agent Maria Hill - meticulous, committed, exacting - strives for in both her professional and personal life. 

But given the opportunity to let her nerd flag fly, Maria had gone for it. _She always commits to a mission, one hundred and ten percent._ Her bag is covered in Dr. Who and dinosaur pins, Harry Potter Pops cover her desk, interspersed with photos of cats she wished she knew and pinups of her favorite comic book characters. 

She’d carried it forward with her wardrobe too, going nuts with the button ups and graphic tees, colorful pants and soft sweaters. She’d dressed up today in a light blue, floral collared shirt, under a ridiculously soft, deeper blue sweater. Tight, tailored navy trousers and low heeled, brown boots finish off her outfit, and she’d raked gel into her newly cropped hair, brushing it back and away. Her glasses are thick, dark framed, loaded with tech, and her firearm is carefully concealed. 

She surreptitiously checks her watch, _not late yet_ and looks around, absently noting the number of people in front of her and behind, folks spreading papers and laptops onto the mismatched furniture. She clocks the tired looking woman settling onto one of the couches, seemingly unaware of the extremely questionable stains worn into the upholstery. Her mind ticks away, barely conscious, cataloging the hang and fit of clothing that could be hiding weapons, checking the exits, noting anything that could be used for defense. 

Nothing sends up alarms and she traces her toe along the edge of a long gouge in the scarred wooden floor. The place is kind of a shithole, but the coffee is great, limited menu notwithstanding. Hot coffee, and cold brew; whole milk only. Espresso shorts are pulled with the intent focus usually reserved for neurosurgery, and requests for frappuccinos are met with a cold, reptilian stare perfected by the entire staff. The entire experience is enhanced...? by the constant din of Siouxsie or whoever else is on repeat for the week.

Finally at the front of the line, Maria grins, sudden and involuntary as she gets a good look at the barista at the register, the woman who’d yelled at her earlier. If she’s honest (and she isn’t), Natasha Romanov always has that sort of effect on Maria. She catches a glimpse of red hair in a crowd, sees Natasha smirk in a meeting, and then she loses conscious control of her face, finds a foolish grin in place of the serious, no-nonsense persona she intentionally cultivates. 

So, that’s her baseline. And it’s not great because… _fuck_. Back in high school, any girl with neon hair or a lip ring had turned her head, made her weak in the knees. She’d gotten one look at Natasha’s new look; red messy curls, defying gravity with staggering amounts of hair spray, cut with bleached blonde and hot pink. 

Turns out Maria hasn’t evolved as much in her tastes as she’d thought, and she had _seriously_ underestimated how appealing Nat’s undercover personal would be. 

Today...is no exception. Nat had fit an amazing amount of metal on her face and elsewhere - barbells in her eyebrows, her nose and along the edges of her ears, little studs running in a line under her right collarbone. 

Maria doesn’t know what those piercings are called, but she likes them. She really likes them, wants to touch each one, trace the line of Natasha’s collarbone with her fingertips and then with her mouth. She doesn’t, of course _later there will be time later_.

Instead, she raises her eyebrows at Nat’s shirt - a white tshirt cut into a tank, the word _fuck_ embroidered among a bevy of dying flowers. It’s sheer and Nat is braless, and _oh, fuck is right_ because her pierced nipples are a tantalizing shadow against the thin fabric.

Maria fucking loves this mission. 

She gets her eyes on Nat’s face, because she is a professional but she can tell that Nat’s hiding a laugh, mouth quirking, and that’s the part that makes her knees a little wobbly, causes the warm, hungry _something_ in her belly to perk up. 

Maria pulls herself together, shoots for affectionate condescension. 

“How’s my favorite barista this morning?” 

Nat rolls her eyes, grabs a cup, shuffles over to the espresso bar. She doesn’t bother to answer or take her order, and Maria spaces out for a minute, enjoying Nat’s quiet competence as she grinds beans and tamps the ground espresso. 

Natasha is competent at everything she does and Maria loves the way her hands move, unhurried and skilled whether she’s pulling a shot of espresso or some kind of surprising weapon from a hidden place. 

She imagines for a few minutes that Nat is actually the cute punk barista she flirts with, and she’s actually a software engineer; that she’s not a spy and Nat is not her backup, her _Break Glass in Case of Emergency_ plan. 

She imagines that when they hold hands, there is only coffee oil and maybe carpal tunnel from excessive typing between them, not gunpowder and blood and God knows what else the two of them have waded through and engineered. 

She comes back to herself when Natasha drops her drink in front of her, a bit of foam escaping from the top. As Maria wraps her hand around the warm cup, Nat’s fingertips brush hers, a light, fleeting touch that sends her heart pounding. When she glances up, Nat’s untying her apron, and her eyes flick towards the backdoor. 

Maria lingers for a minute or two after Nat disappears, keeping her facial expression mild, bland She contemplates the bottle of simple syrup, the single sop thrown for those looking for some sweet with their coffee. A fat fly settles on the thick rim of crystallized sugar, and Maria shudders internally. Really, amazing coffee aside, the place is disgusting. 

But, it shares an alleyway with her office building, and the employees adamantly refuse to answer or ask questions, both useful resources when running a covert operation. Another man is on the bar now, skeletal and pale, dark purple hair and arms covered in lean muscle and serpentine tattoos. Maria heads for the back door.

Once out in the (seemingly empty) alley, Maria pauses right before a weight hits her, hard, driving her face first against the wall. She freezes for one, sharp, second, hand reaching for her gun, hidden by the folds of her sweater, but then relaxes when she hears a low, throaty chuckle in her ear, feels hot lips on her throat. 

“Hey baby.”

Maria turns, grinning, shedding her bag and jacket as Natasha reaches for her, wraps her hands around her waist, firm and not a little possessive. She takes a moment to look Nat up and down, appreciating the snug, artfully shredded jeans, black tights underneath. Her shoes are ridiculous - black platform boots, tightly laced, leather scarred. Maria tugs at a red curl, inhales the faint scent of clean sweat and distinctive aroma of Aqua Net. 

“Your feet are gonna hurt, wearing those all day. And you’ll freeze! Where’s your jacket?” Nat smiles at her, warm and fond and utterly unreceptive to Maria’s gentle nagging and _oh_ it makes her heart ache, just a touch. 

Nat slides her hands up Maria’s back, callused fingertips catching on cashmere. Her bare arms are strong, muscled, and Maria shivers a little at the weight of them draped loosely around her neck. She’s bending her head down when Natasha meets her halfway, murmuring in her ear. 

“Keep me warm, for now.” She pauses and Maria’s stomach drops at her next words, “I have a short shift today.” 

Maria kisses her anyways, red lips and coffee scented breath, the taste of metal in her mouth. Natasha kisses back, lips warm and mobile, tongue teasing and Maria pulls her closer, slides her hands under Nat’s tank and lingers over the soft curve of her waist, her hips. 

Nat’s fingers are at Maria’s own waist now, slipping under her sweater. “Why…” She tugs at the collared shirt underneath, trying to get it loose. “Why are you wearing so many layers?” 

It’s Maria’s turn to ignore questions, and she does, sliding her hands up slowly over Nat’s ribs. She savors the barely audible inhale as her thumbs brush, featherlight, against Nat’s breasts. “Why aren’t _you_ wearing a bra?” 

Nat shrugs “You’re stuck with the shitty detail, thought you might like one good thing before you sit on your ass in that office all day.” She grins, sudden and sharp. 

“You know, before you wage your war with the air conditioner, chat with the locals at the water cooler.” She tugs at Maria’s glasses, repositions them. “I like these. I don’t think nerds are supposed to be so hot.” 

Maria snorts and kisses her again. She didn’t put on lipstick this morning, might as well steal some of Nat’s. She doesn’t tell Nat that this, here, the two of them _is_ the best part of her day. 

But, there’s a lot she doesn’t tell Nat. It’s a game they play in the field, sliding into their roles, trading affection like tokens. But Maria is used to playing to win, planning each three steps ahead and imagining the end game. 

Maria likes winning, and in this case, the potential outcomes are all too appealing; waking up with Nat in the morning and exchanging sweet, lazy kisses. Bitching about Nat’s laundry on the floor. Brunch, in one of her carefully curated Kaiju t-shirts and Natasha in her shredded sweats and wild hair. Holidays at the ocean and dinner parties with their friends. 

Maria _wants_ to win, but this isn’t a real game and the prize is an imaginary castle in the air. At the end of the op, Agent Maria Hill will nod pleasantly at Agent Natasha Romanov as they pass each other in the halls and exchange polite nothings, as they have done a half a dozen times before. 

Agent Maria Hill will pretend she’s never seen Natasha, face red and thighs trembling, fucked out and breathless. She will pretend she’s never seen how soft she looks in the morning, before she’s had her tea and put her eyebrows on. 

Because, after all, Maria isn’t a nerd hooking up with the punk barista next door. Natasha was never a socialite, never an accountant or a legal assistant, never anything but a spy, an assassin, an agent, and Maria’s never been anything but her counterpart. 

It’s safer, _easier_ , for both of them. But Maria can pretend, and she does for now. 

And she’s losing herself now, lips rough against Natasha’s, urging her to tip her head back, tongue flicking over the tender spot under her jaw. She’s greedy for each little breath, each exhale of pleasure while Natasha’s fingers are under her shirt now, cool and restless, roaming up and down her back and around her waist and _God_ it’s good. Maria wants to climb inside her, tear apart that stupid shirt and 

She feels something hard slide into her front pocket, rectangular and small and then Nat is pulling away. Callused fingertips linger for a bare second, hooking into the edge of her waistband and then sliding free. Nat drops a kiss on her cheek, lips warm and damp and Maria’s a fucking idiot because despite everything, she feels smug when she sees the faded red of Nat’s lipstick, smudging at the edges. 

She catches Nat’s hand, slowly rubs her thumb up and down her wrist. Nat’s pulse is fluttering, fast, and Maria _knows_ but it’s safer to pretend, safer for them both even as her eyes sting against the intensity of Nat’s gaze; clear blue eyes and long lashes and heavy eyeliner. 

“You...Your...” She clears her throat, tries again. Her voice is rough, husky. “Lipstick’s smudged.” Nat pulls her hand free, pats at her lips. 

“Fix it for me?” Her voice is light, controlled, a bare thread of tension running underneath. 

Maria accepts the tube of Victory Red. Her heart is working overtime, beating out of her chest but her hand is as steady and careful as ever, smoothing the bright red over Nat’s lips, rubbing at the smudge at the corner of her lips. She takes her time, but eventually she’s capping the lipstick, tucking it back into Nat’s pocket. 

She ignores the faint tremble in Nat’s hands and steps back, shrugs back into her jacket, swings her messenger bag over her shoulder. Her breath is foggy, _funny_ she hadn’t noticed the cold before, and the flash drive is burning in contrast, hot and hard in her pocket and it’s time to go to work. 

_Game over_.


End file.
